Suicide
by RubyBelle
Summary: Her lips, full and pale, they form words, but Erik has to take a second before he can hear them.


**disclaimer!** The Divorce would never have happened if it were up to me.

**WARNING.** THERE IS **CHARACTER DEATH** COMING UP. As if the title weren't enough. BUT YEAH.

This is my way of de-anoning from 1stclass_kink. But I like being an anon, so. A secret between us, yes?

**Suicide**

* * *

><p>Charles' hands are shaking. It's ridiculous, he thinks, that they would be, but even when he focuses on trying to stop them, he can't stop them from trembling. The nails are bitten down to stubs, because otherwise, they would cause more damage when he claws at his legs—those fucking, unfeeling, <em>useless<em> legs.

Both of the kneecaps were dislocated from repeated bashings, and one of them had to be shattered by now. Even if he could feel them, they'd be useless, with intentional tendons sliced and digging forays with the blade of a knife, searching for feeling. No matter what Charles does, he can always see his legs, he can see them in his peripheral vision, and he figures it's about time he gets rid of them.

Actually, the only time he tried to cut them off, he didn't get very far. The knife dug in only about an inch, blood started spilling out, and he wondered absently what the kids, what they'd do if they found him dismembered. So he held off on his suicide for another week, until he had a dream—_nightmare_—of Erik, and then Charles woke up in tears, his throat hoarse and he decided that he had enough.

Either he wouldn't sleep for the rest of his life, or he'd sleep forever.

The cool metal pressed against his forehead, his hands shaking, legs destroyed, and Charles pondered in the irony of it all before he pulled the trigger.

**xxx**

Erik woke up from a blast in his mind, a bang, a screeching sound of agony.

He sits up quickly, looks around, looks for a sign and feels for new metal in the building, trying to find the source. Nothing arrives, nothing shows up.

His fingers twitch around the base of his helmet and he wants too much to remove it, to hear Charles, to hear him outside of his dreams for once, because it sometimes hurts too much to keep sitting here, not knowing anything, not getting any news.

He had woken up from a dream of Charles, and in his dreams, Charles is still perfect, the beach never happened, and Erik never ruined anything.

But, never mind, Erik thinks, never mind.

And he goes back to sleep.

**xxx**

Emma walks into his office that day, her blonde hair laying limp, tired, bored. Erik wonders sometimes, just sometimes—like he did with Charles, she's a horrible replacement, but enough of one—if maybe her powers made everything else too boring, too exhausting. He's in the corner, reading over something or another, just a distraction, really, from his memories.

She walks up to him, and she wastes no time. Her lips, full and pale, they form words, but Erik has to take a second before he can hear them.

"The telepath is dead."

He has to hold on to something, anything, something sturdy to keep himself up, because those words held enough weight to crush even his resolve.

"He killed himself the other night. I felt his presence leave."

He keeps staring, as if nothing was making sense, because nothing _did_ make sense, Goddammit. Fuck, Charles? Dead? Charles, with his hopes and dreams and future shining so bright, brighter than Erik's ever could have been, he was _dead_?

"The others were in a panic. It was with your gun."

Erik can smell the gunpowder, can remember exactly where he left his pistol, he can even remember the last time he touched it, when he left it behind to go meet with Charles, to play chess with him, because the beach was the next day, and, oh, God, how did he not plan ahead, how could he just leave that there, he should've taken it with him, or at the very least hid it, but no, Charles is dead. He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

Emma is done doling out the facts, looking for all the world bored, tired, limp. Erik wants to strangle her, tear her to pieces, but that wouldn't do anything, nothing at all, so he keeps leaning on the counter and keeps staring, so pathetic.

**xxx**

He takes Mystique—Raven—_Mystique_ by the hand, by the wrist, and he jerks her along, because he has to leave the Brotherhood, he has to get back, Emma has to be wrong, Charles can't be dead. Erik doesn't dare tell Mystique, despite her pleads, because he doesn't want to fucking deal with her, not right now.

The mansion, his fucking idea of a school, it was too perfect from the outside, as if nothing had gone wrong.

Erik's heart thumps, and maybe maybe maybe Charles is still alive Emma was wrong he's still here.

Mystique was only his decoy, and she stops the children—he should kill them all, they didn't do a damn thing to help Charles, they were the ones left, _they should've watched over him_—before they attack Erik, and their eyes are swollen, their faces red and infuriated, but Erik pays no mind to them, and keeps walking, up and up, in search of Charles, Charles, Charles.

He makes his way to Charles' room, but there's nothing there, not anymore.

He goes over to the bed, and stares at it. He sits, takes off his helmet, stares at it, then begins to cry.


End file.
